


Old Soldiers

by eponymous_rose



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: 1000-3000 words, Character Study, Gen, POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-07
Updated: 2010-03-07
Packaged: 2017-10-07 19:05:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eponymous_rose/pseuds/eponymous_rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilf's stopped believing in ordinary days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Soldiers

**1949**

Wilfred Mott feels older than anyone's got a right to be.

He's been sitting at the bar for just long enough that he's starting to get a bit worried – everyone's heard stories about the kids coming back from war and climbing into a bottle, and here he is, nightmares rattling around in his head, still carrying the service revolver, wrapping his hand around a glass for the first time in months. Not that he feels out of place among the stooped figures with bloodshot eyes and shaking hands: he's not slept in weeks, and his grip's none too steady, and it's the sort of place where everyone's so wrapped up in themselves that their eyes are empty, distant, miles and miles away.

He stares down at the scotch and soda, wonders what it'd be like to reach for it, unthinking, what it'd be like to break completely, to drown and drown and never come back. He doesn't much fancy the thought.

"Excuse me."

Someone bumps into him from behind, and he turns, squinting through the smoky half-light at the distinctly female voice. She's tall, is his first thought, all tall and ginger and terribly lovely, and then his brain catches up with his eyes and he says, "Hello," which isn't exactly sparkling conversation, but he's done worse.

Nobody much seems to have taken notice of her, which means they're either all blind drunk or she's a regular by now, just another part of the strange world that went on turning while he was away. She slides onto the stool next to his, calls the bartender by name and orders a pint. With a wink at Wilf, she quaffs it in one go, cheerfully oblivious of the barman's disapproving scowl.

Wilf thinks he's quite possibly falling in love with her, right there and then.

"So," he says, and then realises that she hasn't heard him, that she's already looking away. He takes a deep breath, clears his throat, speaks up. "So."

She glances over, like she'd forgotten he was there, and he thinks she's maybe a few years older than he is, because she gets that look in her eyes, kind of a mixture of pity and amusement, and he wonders if he's blushing, because he's starting to feel like a tongue-tied fourteen-year-old again. "So," she says, a laugh in her voice.

"Yes, well." He waves a hand, eloquently. "So."

"Quite." She tilts her head to one side, sizing him up. "Palestine?"

He darts a glance at his glass, almost guiltily, and isn't sure why. "Yeah," he says. He looks back at her, expecting the pity again, but there's just curiosity, almost childlike, open, like she's managed to fool herself into thinking there's still innocent people left in the world after the war, after what came next, after all the smaller atrocities people inflict on one another. "That obvious, am I?"

"Not really," she says, and glances down, a parody of demureness. "Your, ah, sidearm is showing."

"Oh." He fumbles with the stupid gun until it slips more easily into his pocket. "Sorry."

Her eyes are laughing, but she maintains her solemn expression otherwise. "Right."

"So, uh," says Wilf, and holds up a hand before she can interrupt. "Honestly, there's more to the sentence, this time. Just give me a moment."

"Oh, take your time." She waves her empty glass at the barman, and all at once, Wilf's completely forgotten what he was about to say, because there's something beautiful about the way she moves, like she's waiting for the rest of the world to get off its arse and catch up with her.

"What is it you do?" Wilf asks, once he manages to get his brain somewhere back in the vicinity of his skull. "If you don't mind my asking a personal question."

"I'm in advertising," she says. "Jingles, jangles, bells and whistles, made to order."

"Anything I'd know?"

"Probably not." She sighs, and takes a more moderate sip of the second pint. "Haven't had my big break yet, really. Still waiting for them to stop shunting all the secretary-work on me because of the skirt. I've got a degree. I'm more qualified than any of that lot."

"I believe it," Wilf says. "Me, I haven't done much of anything yet. Poor old Dad's getting sick of supporting me, I think, but you know how it is."

"I think I might," she says, and leans forward. "You must have hobbies, though."

Wilf grins, weakly. "How do you know I'm not in places like this all day? A champion drinker?"

"Well, for one, you've taken one sip of your drink since we started talking, and you keep looking at it like it's going to jump up and nip you in the arse." She raises a brow. "You're either the sort who'll get sloshed just looking at hard liquor, or you're an ordinary bloke who's been through some rough times and thinks he's got an image to maintain."

Wilf stares at her. "Am I right in thinking you may have read psychology at some point?"

"Possibly."

"Telescopes."

She blinks at him. "I know you haven't had much, but I didn't plan on getting pissed this early in the evening."

"No, I mean telescopes. They're my hobby. I watch the stars a bit, when I can." He looks away; her curious gaze is starting to feel like a magnifying glass, focusing every bit of light in the room straight into his eyes. "I mean, I'm not looking for Martians, I don't think, not really. It's more the idea that things are so much bigger out there. Bigger and grander and maybe there's somewhere out there that's not so much like... like here."

They're quiet for a while, and he can't bring himself to look over, feeling young and stupid in the face of this sophisticated, clever woman. When her hand comes down on his arm, he jumps.

"I think that makes a lot of sense. But I think you're missing the point."

He casts a sidelong glance, and there's that openness, that innocence, and he thinks she knows damn well it's just an act, but it's the sort of act that's worth maintaining. "The point?"

She looks down, shifts her light touch from his arm to his hand, weaving her fingers through his. "The point being that, as places go, here's not half-bad."

*~*~*

**1969**

"Look at that, Sylvia! Just look!" He takes her hand in his, presses it to the screen, and they both laugh at the little jolt of static electricity. "It's like we're really there."

His little Sylvia, all grown up at nineteen – and soon to be married, if the boy ever gets up the nerve to ask her – and here she is, sitting next to her dad on the floor like she used to do before she got too old for that kind of thing. He's laughing still, even while she gets quiet and rolls her eyes at her daft old dad, because there's something so impossible about all this, about gathering with friends and family in front of the television and hearing somebody say "one small step" and erupting into cheers because they've done it, they've really done it, and they've done it with the technology so a billion people can step out onto that alien wasteland along with them.

"This is the most amazing thing we've ever done."

"It's all right, I guess," says Sylvia, and he knows he's lost her again to Earth, to all the silly things that mean so little when humanity's taking step after step into the void.

His wife understands Sylvia better, probably – they've both always had that strange ability to appreciate the here and now that he'll never get used to – but he suspects somewhere in all the boys and music and gossip there's something deeper, some wishful thinking, some yearning for wide-open, unexplored places beyond the stars. There's one thing he understands very well indeed, though: much as she makes sarcastic comments and complains about this and that, at this very moment his daughter is happy, and that's worth more than a dozen universes.

Uncle Barty pokes his head in from the noisy kitchen, where celebratory drinks are already well underway. "Aren't you finished watching that yet, Wilf? It's not like they're about to get eaten by Martians. All well and good now, I expect!"

"This is history," Wilf says, ignoring how his voice wavers. "You can't rush history, you know."

Sylvia's already moving to the kitchen, but after a moment she pauses, holds out a hand for him. "Come on, Dad," she says. "Planet Earth needs you too, sometimes, you know."

He looks away from the set for the first time. "Sylvia, this-"

"Is history. You can say where you were when it happened, Dad, and everyone will launch into their own reminiscences, and the footage will be on the news forever and that'll be the end of it. Come have a drink with the rest of us. History happens down here too, you know."

He looks back at the set, murmurs, "a stark beauty all its own," and then he's taking his daughter's hand, moving back into the kitchen where people are loud and stupid and insignificant, but they're with him, they're his family, and today, all his family's smiles are brighter than the sun.

*~*~*

**1989**

He's at the old stand, rearranging the papers in preparation for tomorrow, because he has a sneaking suspicion the Berlin Wall's coming down sooner rather than later, and everyone will want to know what old Wilf has to hand them on the topic. For now, things are quiet, and have been for most of the day, so when he's done with his organising, he pulls out his astronomy notes and squints at them, making a plan that'll be enough to occupy his evening, something that'll hopefully keep him from remembering the silences around the house that've become louder since-

Someone jostles his stand, and he looks up to see a familiar figure stumble away with a muttered apology, looking very upset indeed. He hesitates a moment – his granddaughter's been a bit distant lately, and he's not sure how well she'll appreciate the intervention – but he eventually puts out the sign that reads "back in ten" and hurries after her.

"Donna?"

She turns, and her face is blotchy with tears. With a sigh, she slows down – almost in spite of herself, by the looks of it – and lets him catch up to her.

"Donna, what's wrong?" He doesn't know whether to reach out for her or not, because she's at that strange age where everyone older than her is an enemy, where everyone's on a different level, incapable of understanding. She makes up his mind for him, flinging herself into his arms like she did when she was just a kid.

"Gramps, Mum thinks I'm stupid. I can tell. I'm not going back there. I'm not."

"Hush, hush," he says, patting her back, rubbing small circles until the crying's started to die away. "You're brilliant. Everyone knows that."

She pulls away to look up at him, and finally a sliver of a smile peeks through the miserable expression. "Well, obviously. Anyone who's not noticed my brilliance must be blind as a bat."

"Must have fingers in their ears, too, every time you open your mouth." He winks, and she grins outright; it's an old game Wilf started when he realized Sylvia was going to be even more inept than him at certain vital aspects of parenting. "Donna, your mum loves you very much. She's just a bit outspoken, you know."

Donna snorts, scrubs at her eyes with her sleeve. "That's one way of putting it. I'm going to stay with Laura tonight, give us both a chance to cool off."

"Does your mum know that's where you'll be?"

"She doesn't care," says Donna, and relents under his steady gaze. "Fine. I'll ring her when I get there."

"All right," says Wilf. "All right, Donna. You do that."

"Yeah. Thanks, Gramps."

But as Donna turns, Wilf finds himself reaching out, snatching at her sleeve. "Donna? Could you-" He swallows. "Would you mind coming to see me sometime? Only the house seems so empty since your Gran died."

She goes quiet, just stops in her tracks. "Yeah," she says. "Yeah, I could do that." A smile flickers back to life, more genuine this time, like the tears never even happened. "D'you still have that great rattling old telescope? Tell me when the Martians are coming and I'll pop by for a look."

He laughs. "Definitely. And see that you and Laura watch the news tonight. Wall's coming down, you mark my words."

"Right," says Donna, distractedly, already turning away. "Walls coming down all over the place. Thanks, Gramps. I'll see you soon."

And she's striding off down the street with a new confidence, a new self-assurance, and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, they'll both be okay.

*~*~*

**2009**

He's sitting in a spaceship orbiting Earth, across from a boyish man who's seen more, done more, than Wilf could ever imagine, and they've hit the companionable sort of silence he'd only ever managed in Palestine, the sort of silence that you get when you realise the bloke next to you's willing to die for you, that you're willing to die for him. It's oddly comforting, really, and he hangs onto the silence for as long as he dares, because he knows, with a sick, sad certainty, what comes next.

The service revolver is heavy in his pocket.

*~*~*

**2011**

Wilf's stopped believing in ordinary days.

Little things have a way of slipping across time, growing as they go, so that even the most boring day of the year can take on new meaning, given half a chance. He's done a lot of thinking about time, lately, and he thinks he understands why there was once a whole race of people who guarded it, protected it, and, more importantly, he thinks he understands why they went bad.

He thinks about getting older, about new aches and old memories and grandchildren all grown up, about all the things he's seen that nobody'd ever believe, even in this strange new world that knows there's something bigger out there, something so much more important. He wonders sometimes if he should feel cheated, if he should rail against the fact that the one thing he's been waiting for, the one thing he's dreamed of while watching the sky all those years, has finally happened so late in his life.

But no; that's what the Master had done when he'd tried to tame time and make it his own, when he'd tried to rule it, and look where it got him. Better to feel privileged to have witnessed the whole thing at all, to have played such an important role, to have saved the world, to have saved time itself.

He's so deep in his thoughts that he nearly walks right into someone. Their apologies stumble over each other, and he looks up to see a young man wearing a cricket uniform, of all things, all straw-blonde hair and an open, honest expression tinged with something older, something familiar-

"Are you all right?" The man sounds sincere, but there's a distracted, worried look about him. "I'm sorry; I was lost in thought."

"Right," says Wilf, shaking himself back to the present. "No, I'm, ah, fine. I'm fine."

"Good," says the man, and starts to go on his way again.

Wilf turns, and almost says nothing, because it's impossible, really, it's daft, but then he gets to thinking about the way time works, about all the little things, and he says, "It'll be all right, you know. Whatever you're worried about. Time has a way of sorting these things out."

And, ignoring the man's incredulous glance, Wilf starts off down the street again, into a world that's all his own, into a world that's so much stranger than anything he's ever imagined, looking through a telescope.

Wilfred Mott feels younger than anyone's got a right to be, lighter on his feet, and the whole of the future's stretching out before him.


End file.
